


Between the Shadow and the Soul

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And a lot more angst than I originally planned oops, F/M, I'm too tired to think of a summary lol have an excerpt instead, Implied Underage, Teacher Crush, Teacher/Student, lots of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 08:17:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8837305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: She could feel it, somewhere deep inside her. Could feel that those uncaring eyes and mocking voice and ridiculing sneer were never purposefully aimed to not care or mock or ridicule her. That, somehow, Mr Baelish did care about Sansa.





	

**Author's Note:**

> [This fic is dedicated to all you with your tags and comments, althogh I intended for this to be more cheesy and inspired by some of the more 'colorful' tags lol. Y'all are crazy.  
> This also turned into more angst than I planned (and a lot longer), but I think overall it’s pretty good! Let me know what you think :) ]

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”  
\- Pablo Neruda, _100 Love Sonnets_

* * *

 

            The small green dot had been beckoning Sansa. It would flash green on its own whims – never between classes, when sometimes she would take a peek. Never when she was taking a break from her studies in the evening, or waiting for the bus in the morning.

            It wasn’t something she noticed at first. A small circle by each person’s avatar: blank was offline, green was online.

            And this person – whoever they were, if they were still around and not a ghost of a student – their light was lit green tonight.

            Sansa glanced at the clock. It was nearing midnight. She had an exam tomorrow in math, which she detested. She had never been good with any sort of numbers outside of counting or adding, and the progressive addition of _letters_ was absolute madness. It was cruel. To her, math was a strange language all its own; and one she was particularly sure she wished never to master.

            Which led her online. An underground site set up by a group of students sometime last year. Not quite like social media, though there were threads just for that. Rather, the site was created for the exclusive use of students. Various threads ranged from how good such-and-such teacher was – their personality, their grading, how hard the tests are, and how much sucking up was required. Those threads were the largest, with some teachers taking up hundreds of posts.

            In one tab had the thread that dealt with test speculation. Sansa had already combed through the pages of past homework and tests – none proved useful, if because this _particular_ math teacher was notorious for throwing curveballs each exam. A student commented that someone should take one for the team and steal a copy of the test.

            So the speculation of what was on the exam, on what the average might be – all of it was the same.

            But the other tab. Sansa hated to admit how often she perused it. Would hate to admit _why_ , and _who_ in particular she was looking for.

            Like the endless threads on why teachers sucked, even longer posts were made on which teachers the students fancied. Some in less polite words. This year saw the addition of a new English teacher: the young Mr Tyrell, who was the older brother of Sansa’s classmate Margaery. Oh, how nearly every girl (and a handful of boys) _swooned_ for Tyrell. How they would cluster at his door to merely peak at the soft curls framing his cheekbones and gentle eyes. How they would often murmur – in person or online – what they _imagined_ him like in bed.

            Childish fantasies, of course.

            Sansa, admittedly, was taken to Mr Tyrell when he first arrive. How she imagined him to be like a Greek god and not a human, he was too perfectly beautiful. But, she and others groaned about how they had for English instead a grumpy, greying woman. Mrs Tyrell. Sansa grew to have a fondness for the woman, seeing her as like a grandmother unafraid to speak her mind or call out children’s misbehaving.

            But regarding the younger Tyrell, Sansa had read the fervid _speculation_ online. On the teacher’s predilection towards men, which was never proven. Speculation. It did spark fear in the administration of the school, only because of the recent news of child predators in the public schools throughout the city. A particularly disturbing story came about just a month ago, and parents grew disturbingly upset at the rumors of Mr Tyrell being fond of their children.

            Sansa didn’t know him very well. But she knew the young Tyrell was far too good-hearted to fall to such depravity.

            _Depravity_.

            Sansa had to stifle a laugh at that.

            Her eyes still fell on that small green dot. Such an insignificant dot, so unseen and unimportant. Her fingers had already clicked on the name accompanying the dot – she could recount it by heart, even in her sleep.

            User_7065747972.

            Sansa at first thought it a phone number, though a quick search proved the figment false. The country of origin was nowhere near Westeros, and if so why would someone stalk an underground site for a private school?

            It didn’t match the style of the randomly-generated usernames, however. For a start, the number was far too large. Sansa had created her account halfway through the semester (an account was needed to access the threads, with a password that only the students knew and whispered to each other in the halls. To keep the teachers out of the threads, she imagined). She wasn’t even the thousandth user, only because the site provided it as the temporary username. Like almost everyone else, Sansa meant to use something personal for hers – LadyWolf, after her loving pet she left back home. Or perhaps Lemonsweet, after her favorite flavor (of anything). So many students were _obvious_ to figure out because of their usernames. Which made the whole secrecy of the site that much more important – not all posts were particularly _kind_ towards the teachers, and she could imagine the amount of trouble that would arise if the headmistress found out what the students were saying about her.

            After much deliberation, Sansa left her name as is. User_731.

            The _deliberation_ arose because of a certain thread she had startled to see.

            Her heart had lifted when she saw it, hidden deep within other threads from earlier in the year. _I’m not the only one_ , Sansa thought, clicking on it, excited to see that there was more than a page of comments.

            She never thought children to be so _hurtful_.

            And then: she had never been so glad to not be User_7065747972.

            It said simply: _Don’t you think Mr Baelish is kind of good-looking?_

            The comments below it – more than twenty, some by the same person – were terrible. Flat-out rejections of the initial statement. A motely of _Eww gross_ filtered in between _What the fuck is wrong with you_ , and the rather fun comparison of _He’s as old as granny Tyrell wtf_.

            _He’s not_ , Sansa countered in her head. Something unknown urged her to continue reading through the comments, each at least as terrible as the last. _He’s hardly as old as my parents, maybe younger_.

            It was the hair, she thought, scrolling past another accusation of _He’s so old_. Streaks of grey combed through his black hair, slightly curled, possibly soft under fingers.

            Or perhaps it was the eyes: grey and uncaring, glossing over each student. Or his voice: mocking as the students attempted to solve equations and failed to use the right method. A sneer pressed against his lips, full and as possibly soft as his hair (though for a different reason) – a sneer that contrasted with that bored glaze in his eyes.

            Until they fell on Sansa.

            She could _feel_ it, somewhere deep inside her. Could feel that those uncaring eyes and mocking voice and ridiculing sneer were never purposefully aimed to not care or mock or ridicule _her_. That, somehow, Mr Baelish _did_ care about Sansa.

            Once, when the unfathomable language of numbers and letters and pluses and minuses rearranged themselves into an order Sansa could understand – when she had finally answered a problem correctly – Sansa thought she saw his eyes crinkle in a mimicry of _well done_. She thought she heard the quiet, underlying tone of praise beneath the ridicule. That the sneer might have transformed into a smile.

            “Looks like Ms Stark has finally learned her numbers,” he mused, the class laughing. And the smile was gone.

            But not from her memory. Not from when she was working on class assignments, looking up to think - only to see the twin shadows of mossy grey staring at her. At first, Sansa looked away. Mr Baelish was terrifying with his stare and his mocking.

            And then – Sansa stared back.

            She wondered what was going through his mind. What he saw when he looked through smoky eyes at her: did he see the foolish, stupid girl who could barely add numbers? Or was there something else?

            Sansa thought again to the news last month. To the terrible report of what an elementary school teacher made his children do under the guise of fun. _Depravity_. Thought on the whispered words that all teachers were monsters preying on little kids. _Horrible_.

            What if there _was_ a monster at her school? But not the young Tyrell. No. Perhaps the monster instead could be a student – for even _thinking_ such terrible things of a teacher more than twice her age. For those thoughts plaguing her sometimes, late at night.

            What if the student _wanted it_?

            Still, the dot burned green.

            Sansa swallowed the fear in her gut. It was past midnight already, and she was sure no amount of studying would earn her high (or even average) marks on the exam. She was perfect in everything but math, which sat as a pressing thorn against her.

            A little letter icon sat before the icon of User_7065747972, whose avatar was a simple black square. She clicked the icon.

            The cursor blinked in rhythm to her heart. Sansa had been debating sending the message for a week now. Had thought it up last Wednesday when she imagined those mossy eyes trailing over her when she went to collect her homework. Had thought there was a flicker of _something_ in his eyes when she never broke his stare. Had definitely felt _something_ when she was sure he had purposefully brushed his fingers over hers – small, faint, hardly there.

            She wondered if he had watched her walk away. And if he did, _where_ did his eyes fall.

            _Hi. I saw that you said you like Mr Baelish too. I was wondering if you wanted to talk about it not in the threads since some of the kids are mean :( I’d love to know what you like about him lol :)_

            It was innocent enough. Or not enough? Too much? There weren’t any errors – she had checked time and again. Sansa had checked each day, when she opened the message window to read and re-read and re-re-read it.

            The cursor was so slow now. Her heart was a painful ache in her chest – fear and excitement and desire coursing in her blood.

            She clicked send.

            And the dot turned blank.

* * *

            The morning was cold. Refreshing.

            But not cold enough to extinguish the fluttering in her stomach. It had been there all night – coils of fear threaded with excitement. And something else. Panic? Because she had missed them by _seconds_. Because she had to toss on her bed imagining each possible scenario in her head.

            Would they respond with cheer and excitement to finally have someone to talk to?

            Would they respond in disgust, realizing that their crush had been a mistake and the other students were right?

            Would they just not respond at all?

            Sansa wasn’t sure which scenario she was looking forward to. For each, she had thrown back and forth enough conversation that by the time the bus arrived, she almost forgot that nothing had happened.

            Her phone buzzed with an email. Most likely junk, at this hour. But she opened it, to keep her mind busy. Her fingers felt stiff on the screen.

            The title read: _New message alert: User_70…_

            Sansa froze.

            The sounds of raucous children and passing cars faded behind the incessant pounding of her heart. It was so loud – had it always been there? Could other people hear it? And did they know why it was beating so hard?

            She turned away from the student beside her. Attempted to angle her phone away, as though she always sat awkwardly like that.

            Sansa’s thumb wandered above the message. It was so early – so _unlike_ them to be online.

            And now: which scenario was right?

            The bus was halfway to school when she opened it.

            _User_7065747972 replied to your message: Hi! omg awesome that you like him too!! idk what’s my favorite thing though. Can I just answer ‘everything’ lol? What about you? I’d love to talk to you more if you want :)_

            Huh.

            A girl, she thought first. Sansa couldn’t imagine someone else typing like that. Her mind flitted onto everyone in her class, trying to put the words to their personalities. None of them fit.

            She read through the message again. It seemed so…young. Sansa remembered being a few years younger, typing like that (though with more _flourishes_ and smiley faces, she cringed). It could have been someone younger than her, someone she didn’t know.

            It could have been anyone.

            Sansa drafted a message during the final minutes of the ride, not bothering to proofread it before sending it. If the person _was_ young, they wouldn’t mind the typos.

            _Hi again, and good morning! I don’t think ‘everything’ is a wrong answer or a bad answer lol. Ummm for me though, I think I guess his eyes, or when he actually shows them. The kindness there. You know what I mean? Either that or his hair – it looks soft lol_

            She was barely through the doors when her phone went off again.

            _LOL! I get you though lol :) I don’t have Baelish this year though!! :( You’re so lucky :(( lol Can I ask you a question though? Like you don’t have to answer but I’m just curious :)_

            Sansa stood by the main stairs, careful to make sure no one could see her phone. She dimmed the screen to its lowest setting, and even then it felt too bright. Too _damning_.

            _You don’t? That sucks :( He’s just as-_

            Sansa hesitated on the word to describe Mr Baelish. On _how_ she would describe him, even if to a kindred soul. Someone walked past the stairs, and she slunk further away. She continued:

            _You don’t? That sucks :( He’s just the same as you remember I’m sure, lol. Bit of an asshole on the outside, but I think he’s got some kindness in there. Somewhere lol. Um, but yeah, you can ask me whatever, but class starts soon lol_

            Sansa then wondered if they _knew_. If whoever User_7065747972 was, that they were spying on her from afar. Just as curious about who else saw Mr Baelish as someone aside from the asshole math teacher.

            In her paranoia, Sansa left and walked through the halls. There was time still before classes began, but the school was incredibly strict on their _No Electronics_ policy. She heard that someone caught got just holding their phone in class – parents called, detention given, phone taken away until the end of the semester.

            Her fingers hurt, clamped tightly around her phone. Afraid that somehow it might fall out, open up to the chat messages, and reveal to the whole school her _terrible_ secret.

            What in seven hells would people think of her? Crushing on a teacher, and Mr Baelish of all of them. If she had a thing for My Tyrell, perhaps the ridicule would be the _girls will be girls_ sort, accompanied by eye-rolling.

            But someone like _him_ , old enough to be her father perhaps. Old enough to have grey hairs and a sneer created by much experience.

            Still, she saw those eyes softened in the illusion of a smile. Still, she imagined threading her fingers in his hair, tracing where the curls separated between black and grey. From temple to the back of his neck – then digging her fingers in, as his roamed from her own curls down her shoulders and across her breasts-

            The bell rang.

            Her heart was hammering, her cheeks flushed. Sansa wondered if anyone saw her – if anyone _knew_ what terrible fantasies were pervading the timid innocence of the _child_ she appeared to be.

            They were getting worse as the semester wore on. As each passing day led to glances milliseconds longer. Led to accidental brushing of fingers across returned assignments. Led to the imaginings of her mind to become far, far less innocent.

            She wondered if they would ever stop.

            She wondered if she ever _wanted_ them to.

            Sansa glanced at her phone. No new messages. Disappointment crept in between the smoldering fire deep in her, crawling through her ribs and around the pounding of her heart. _At least I’m not the only one_ , she thought as she headed to English.

            She didn’t pay a second of attention to Mrs Tyrell recounting the literature. Or to the rude remarks she snapped back towards a particularly feisty child. The laughter that roared within the class that Sansa barely heard.

            All she could focus on was the ghosting feel of his fingers across her skin.

* * *

            Sansa tried to do some last-minute cramming during lunch for math. Tried to remember the way to solve for the letters, and how to rearrange the equations to do exactly what she wanted them to.

            Every thirty seconds, she checked her phone.

            Each sound that echoed in the crowded dining hall seemed to drown the notification she was sure she was getting.

            She was waiting on a question from her friend. Sansa had her own in mind to ask her, although doubt continued to linger as time wore on and still – no new message.

            The math and the phone-checking were also great in alleviating that burning fire inside her. In forgetting how soft Mr Baelish’s fingers might feel as they threaded within her auburn curls. Roaming down her neck, planting her mouth and jaw with kisses. Further down his hands went. Shoulders, breasts, stomach, hips-

            _Stop_ , she told herself. _Study your math, and get your teacher out of your head_.

            A wicked echo in her mind asked if Sansa would rather have her teacher somewhere else. She shushed it.

            The bell rang. Sansa collected her papers in her bag. Again, she checked her phone. She visited the underground site, too, wondering if her message had even sent. It had.

            And there was a checkmark by it.

            Her friend had seen it shortly after Sansa had posted it.

            Was she tired of talking about Mr Baelish? She didn’t sound like it. Was it Sansa? Did she find out it was _Sansa_ – of all people – that was also crushing on him, and didn’t want to talk to her anymore?

            Or did she get found out? Was the school looking for User_7065747972 and User_731, self-identified as the _monsters_ they are for their terrible crush?

            Sansa nearly dropped her phone.

            No. It was okay – she was okay. Her friend probably got carried away and forgot to reply. Sansa decided that if she didn’t have a reply by this evening, then she would start to worry again.

            Besides, now it was time to fail an exam.

            Sansa headed to Mr Baelish’s room, long before most of the students had thrown their trash away or stood up. Always punctual, always the lady.

            A lady with a terrible mind.

            Not to mention that being on time meant a few moments alone with him. Sansa hiked up her skirt an inch higher, just above her knees – she wasn’t sure if Mr Baelish found it _appealing_ , or if it was just in her fantasies that any sliver of skin would be devoured by his eyes. Devoured by his eyes first, and then his fingers, and then-

            “What, no way!”

            Sansa saw a cluster of students outside of his room, blocking the door.

            Another student: “Who is it though? Who actually would’ve done it?”

            Panic. Sansa was caught. Someone knew – they were looking at her, weren’t they? Whispering about her. Soon they would all turn and point and call her for what she was: a monster.

            “I don’t know, dude, but it’s the whole freaking test!”

            “But how?”

            “Fuck if I know.”

            “You think they _slept_ with him?”

            “Oh gods, dude, no. Fuck. Don’t make me think about that.”

            Some of them were furiously scribbling on their arms in pen, others on small rips of paper. Each of them were smiling, laughing beneath the flurry of _Ew dude gross_ and _Well that would explain a lot though_.

            Realization dawned on Sansa.

            She fumbled for her phone, looking for the test speculation thread.

            There: _5 th period math exam for today – whole thing with answers!!!_

            Sure enough, photos were attached. They were dark and a bit blurry, as if someone was taking them in secret. But Sansa didn’t care about what was on the papers; on whether or not they were _real._ She clicked on the third image, zooming in to the bottom corner.

            A small sliver of dark fabric, with faint lines popping out from the camera flash.

            She saw that familiar string of numbers authored to the photos.

            The door opened.

            “Stop loitering and get in class already.”

            The final bell rang as Sansa slunk into the room with the rest of the students from the hall. Her mind was full of everything but math.

            She had just sat down when her phone buzzed.

            “Electronics away, all of you.”

            The voices of her teacher and the students and everything faded away as Sansa stared at the message.

            _What would you do to get what you want?_

            Sansa watched as Mr Baelish stood at the front, stack of exams in his fingers. A scowl persisted on his face as he waited for the students to sit down and get their pencils out.

            She stared at his necktie.

            At the faint stitching of silver across a field mossy green.

            Sansa felt…betrayed? Hurt?

            Sansa felt a lot of things.

            She didn’t meet her teacher’s eyes as he handed her the exam. Nor did she ever raise her head to look at him.

            _He’s not yours_ , a gentle voice reminded her. _He’s a teacher – he can’t be yours, ever_.

            How long ago did the exam start? How much time was left? Sansa scribbled her name at the top of the page, began to read through the first problem.

            _He never wanted you_ , came a darker voice. _If he did, he would have waited for you, instead of going behind your back_.

            She saw that stupid string of numbers in her head – saw them attached to that damning photo.

            Oh, how foolish Sansa was! To think she had a _friend_ , a comrade in her stupid crush for someone a teacher. For someone who definitely thought Sansa to be just as foolish.

            Sansa wondered if her _friend_ was good at math. Wondered if perhaps the jumble of numbers with letters had made sense to Sansa, would Mr Baelish have taken notice of her?

            _It’s all your fault for being stupid_.

            Another bell.

            Sansa looked at her exam. There was her name, a pathetic scrawl at the top (not even accompanied by a date). And beneath the first problem: 7065747972 over and over, running down the length of the sheet in progressively hurried strokes. The last string was illegible.

            She stood, head down, lining behind others to turn in her exam. Sansa tried not to look at their papers, but couldn’t help it. She wondered if perhaps one of them was mocking her right now – if they had watched as Sansa crumbled under the weight of betrayal and stupidity.

            “Ms Stark.”

            Sansa was nearly out the door when her feet froze. _Calm yourself_ , came the gentler voice. Deep breath.

            She turned, a look of innocent confusion on her face. Other students passed her by, though not without furrowing their brows.

            “Yes, Mr Baelish?”

            His name tasted like soot.

            The last student turned in her paper, and he arranged them in neat pile atop his desk.

            “See me after school. I’d like to have a word with you about this exam.”

            Sansa wished to tell him that he and his _lover_ could go rot in all seven hells. “Okay.” She turned on her heels and left.

* * *

            The rest of the day went by in a languid blur. She was debating whether or not to actually show up in Mr Baelish’s room, or whether she should just go home. Other students were there when he announced his request, though. And it was about her exam, which meant it had to be important.

            Or he knew that she knew, and was prepared to silence her.

            Maybe…

            Sansa sat at the back of Mr Pycelle’s class. The old man had a video playing about some feud in history – she couldn’t remember who it was on or even where they were in their studies. But a video often meant that Pycelle was fast asleep; as was half of the class.

            She surreptitiously pulled her phone from her bag, cursing at how bright even the lowest setting was. The last message stared back at Sansa in a victorious smirk.

            _What would you do to get what you want?_

            Her fingers typed out a dozen replies, from the not-so-kind to the really-not-kind. There was an endless list of things that Sansa wanted to shout at her _friend_ , but none of them she managed to form into words.

            The blinking cursor taunted her as much as the words.

            She put her phone back.

            And thought.

            And planned.

* * *

            “You wanted to see me, Mr Baelish?”

            The door didn’t creak as she opened it. The latch caught when she closed it, her body leaning against the frame. _Waiting_ for him to call her.

            He turned, his hands dropping from the neat clutter across his desk. Everything was always neat about him, Sansa realized. Everything had a place.

            And Sansa would take those clutters and fling them in the air.

            Mr Baelish stared at her, his head titled. She didn’t miss how his eyes glanced behind her – to the door she had closed of her own accord.

            “Yes. Please come here, I need to discuss your exam with you.”

            Did she miss something? This was not how the scenario went in her head. No – this was fine. She could work with this. This might even be better.

            Sansa approached, her skirt having been hiked up just outside the door to a school-regulation _scandalous_ height. She had loosened her blouse from the skirt; undone the top two buttons. As she walked towards him, Sansa made sure her strides were long and purposefully exaggerated.

            He noticed.

            She had to hide the tug of a smile on her lips.

            His eyes roamed from where strands of her hair fell in the open collar of her blouse. Where her hips moved with planned swagger. Where the strip of skin at her knees would have sent every septa crumbling.

            But – Mr Baelish looked past her again, to the door.

            When she was a foot from his desk, she stopped. Waiting.

            Mr Baelish brought his gaze back up to her eyes, and never strayed. The coiling fear in Sansa laughed that he wasn’t interested because he already had his fill of a young girl. _Someone who’s prettier and smarter than you_.

            Sansa dug her fingernails into the back of her neck as she brushed her hair forward to frame her face.

            Mr Baelish’s fingers drummed against the desk – one two three four. And then: “I don’t believe the headmistress would approve of your sudden disregard of the rules today, Ms Stark.”

            A flush crept within Sansa, from her toes to her face – _embarrassment_. It hadn’t worked. But why? And: how did her _friend_ do it?

            She pushed the thoughts out of her mind as she attempted to casually tug her skirt back down to a level of propriety. Her blouse was left open, if only because Sansa was too embarrassed to blatantly admit her folly in thinking she could _woo_ him.

            “You wanted to speak to me about my exam?” Her voice threatened to crack, but she managed to keep it calm.

            “Yes, or broadly speaking, your poor performance in this class.”

            Sansa’s heart dropped.

            Mr Baelish continued: “I’m afraid that at the rate you’re going, especially with today’s exam, you’re in the possibility of failing and falling behind a year.”

            Was that it? Did her _friend_ find herself on the verge of failing, too – and promised her body as payment?

            She could do it too.

            “What do I have to do not to fail?” Sansa blurted out.

            She thought she saw something cross his eyes – a faint shadow. A darkness. But it was gone when she looked again.

            “How much do you study math? In a typical week, let’s say.”

            So, Mr Baelish really did call her in to talk about math. Disappointment filled in the crevices where the embarrassment couldn’t reach.

            “Um, a few hours, I suppose. Maybe five or six.”

            He _tsk_ ed in disapproval. “Not to be rude, but you should be studying much more than that, given how poorly you do on in-class and take-home assignments.”

            Now he was just ridiculing her. Like he did everyone else. Like she just was everyone else.

            The shot of pain hurt the worst.

            “I…I’m sorry, Mr Baelish,” she stammered out, her eyes falling. She was just no good. She was horrible.

            “But,” he began. A pause. When he didn’t continue, Sansa finally looked up. He was staring at the third button – at how it was the only stopper between Sansa and complete _indecency_.

            “Yes?”

            A _terrible_ smile crawled across his lips, into his features. Another shadow fell over grey-green eyes – and this time, it stayed.

            “But, Ms Stark, despite popular belief, I don’t wish to see my students fail.” He licked his bottom lip in a slow drag. She watched it creep from one side to the other. “If you require tutoring, I would be more than welcome to help you understand any concepts you find troubling.”

            Her body felt too small – too small for the whirlwind of emotions inside her, for the fire that was burning and burning as the seconds ticked by.

            “Thank you for the offer, Mr Baelish.” _But_ … “I have one question, though, if you don’t mind?”

            He shook his head. “Not at all.”

            Sansa took a step forward, her knees inches apart from his. She could feel warmth floating in that sliver of space between them. “How do I know I can _trust_ you? Especially after the, um, rumors?”

            She could see his fingers clench across the desk’s surface. Sansa wondered – with a dark smile hidden inside her – if Mr Baelish was trying to resist a tempting _itch_. To touch Sansa, to feel her, to never let her go.

            If perhaps her efforts had worked.

            If perhaps she wouldn’t _stop him_.

            “Which rumors are you talking about?”

            Sansa looked back into his darkened eyes. “From today. There’s-” She realized then that she wouldn’t be able to announce the underground site without outing herself as someone who used it, too. But, this was the only ammunition she had. If she was lucky, the gun wouldn’t backfire against her. “There’s a rumor going around that a student of yours slept with you to get a copy of today’s exam.”

            His brow arched. That playful smirk still fell across his lips – it seemed to _grow_ somehow. “Really? And how, Ms Stark, did you come across his rumor?”

            Did he know what she knew? “I heard some students talking about it on my way to class.”

            “I noticed that you were _late_ today.”

            “What? I was not.”

            Mr Baelish didn’t respond, only letting the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement.

            Then she realized – she was _later than normal_. Because Mr Baelish had noticed, like she wanted. Had noticed that Sansa would always show up early, to a class she was obviously terrible at, with a teacher that was well-known on or off the internet as being terrible.

            She got the feeling that Mr Baelish was always watching her. Wherever she was, whatever she was doing – he would be there, eyes fixated on Sansa.

            “Ms Stark?”

            Reality brushed away her thoughts.

            Sansa took in a long, deep breath before responding. “I may have seen, in passing, photos of today’s exam on some of the student’s phones. And,” she paused. Her fingers rose slightly, tempted to _touch_ and confirm her accusation. “And, in one of them, I couldn’t help but notice your lovely necktie.”

            Mr Baelish’s gaze flitted behind her for a moment. “It is lovely, don’t you think?”

            “It’s a pity,” she began, her fingers finishing their course. The tie was silk, smooth beneath her skin. She lightly scratched at the silver threading. “A shame, really, that you would throw it away for some _girl_.”

            He was watching her fingers trail across the fabric. Sansa wondered if he was thinking about them like she was – on where he wanted her fingers to caress. On how much nicer it would be to touch skin instead of silk.

            When Sansa took her hand back, he met her gaze again. And chuckled.

            “Oh, Ms Stark, what an imagination you have.”

            Sansa held her ground. “Thank you. And how close to danger you like to live, Mr Baelish.”

            His voice was barely a whisper. “If you only knew, Ms Stark.” Lithe fingers scratched at the desk. Dark eyes – still fixated on hers.

            She continued. “What do you think the headmistress would say when presented with two cases? One: a girl who accidentally forgot how low her skirt has to fall. Or two: a teacher who should not have removed his necktie.”

            Another chuckle. “Are you saying it’s illegal to take off my tie, Ms Stark?”

            Her fingers were itching to touch the silk again. To undo the knot at his throat. “Perhaps if a tie is all that you take off.”

            She felt it then, a whisper of touch against her skin. Mr Baelish had moved his leg incrementally forward to brush against her knee. So small, so slight – and yet it felt burning. Aching.

            The fingers on the desk were drawing small circles now. Mimicking the strokes of his leg against hers. Sansa watching his fingers, mesmerized. Imagining them circling elsewhere.

            Sansa borrowed courage and words – wondering if perhaps they’d have a different meaning coming from her lips. “What would you do to get what you want? What _do_ you want?”

            Mr Baelish smiled at her, letting the silence fill the space between. On and on his leg brushed hers, his fingers circled the desk.

            When he spoke, she hadn’t heard – so fixated on his motions.

            “Everything.”

            Sansa looked at her teacher. The realization dawned on her – the realization that yes, she was definitely a _fool_. To have fallen so easily, so willingly, into the plot was embarrassing.

            And yet, not. That it was a _game_ of sorts. One that he orchestrated and allowed to play until a satisfying fruition.

            Despite the icy fear battling against the desire in her, Mr Baelish’s mouth betrayed nothing but amusement. “Do you really think I’m ‘a bit of an asshole on the outside’, Ms Stark?”

            She swallowed a lump in her throat. “How long?” The words wouldn’t form, nothing of the accusation or the hurt or the realization that was bubbling inside of her.

            His leg left hers, and the cold that swept against her knee was biting.

            “For quite some time, Ms Stark. Although long after I posted that thread. I must say, I hadn’t thought children to be so _vile_ online.” He laughed, as if in some inside joke only he understood. “But I waited. And then you approached me.”

            “Why… Why the photos?”

            Another laugh. “I was curious how my students would react, both to the idea of cheating and to speculations on _how_ someone got a copy of the test. Especially from someone like me.”

            Sansa’s eyes were fixed on his necktie again, tracing the silver threading. She had fallen straight into the trap of assuming the worst from him and the supposed _friend_ she had made.

            “You let students cheat off an exam, just to… Just as a joke?”

            “I do apologize, but I must admit it was an amusing idea.” Mr Baelish shrugged. “That wasn’t even the right exam. Or the right class. But there have been rampant rumors of cheating in the past year, thanks to technology. The headmistress has been persistent. _No Electronics_ policies, urging the teachers to take action if they suspect cheating. Or any _unusual_ behavior on exams. Like not filling it out.”

            The exam…

            The realization of why she was here in the first place came back like a crushing weight. “Am I… Am I really going to fail?” Sansa hadn’t failed before in her life. She might not have been _great_ at some things, but _failing_ was different. Worse.

            But she’s failed so many times _today_. Failed to see the underlying deceit. Failed in falling directly into the scheme of the man sitting before her. Staring at her with that same darkness covering moss.

            Mr Baelish searched for her exam within the neat stack. She had forgotten how miserable it looked – numbers scrawled over like a madwoman.

            “I’m afraid you are.”

            Her own fingers pressed into the corner of the desk, unable to look him in the eyes. “I see.”

            She saw his fingers move towards her face. And stop. Move back down. “Ms Stark, please look at me.”

            She did.

            “Would you still care for tutoring? Not today, since I have a meeting with the headmistress. But I would be available to help you after school or on the weekends.”

            She nodded. The crushing weight lifted, if a bit. “Yes, that would be great.”

            “I can meet with you after school, whichever days you are free.” Mr Baelish paused, that wicked pull to his lips appearing again. “Although, if you would prefer tutoring in some place private, I would be willing to accommodate you.”

            Sansa couldn’t help the wicked smile that pulled at her lips, too. Couldn’t help but notice how his eyes crinkled along with his terrible smirk. At how his gaze fell again down her body – taking his time, _enjoying_ what Sansa was prepared to give, in due time. The flutter in her stomach, the smoldering fire that was threatening to come to life again and burn and consume.

            Her smile grew wider. “That sounds lovely.”

            “Wonderful. We can work out the details online.” Mr Baelish shuffled back with a reluctance even Sansa felt. But his hungry eyes continued to drink her in. Continued to imagine how those _tutoring_ sessions would end. “And, Ms Stark, as much as I prefer them as is, your buttons need fixing.”

            He watched as she righted her blouse: first tucking it back into her skirt, and finally – slowly – buttoning away her flesh beneath fabric. She thought she saw a glimmer of disappointment when the last button was through. She _knew_ she saw that tempting itch in the way his fingers pressed into the desk (and she definitely saw it hidden beneath his trousers).

            “Goodbye, Mr Baelish.” Sansa was on her way out when the door opened, and the golden, aggrieved form of the headmistress sauntered in. She paid Sansa no mind – if only because Sansa’s appearance was _normal_.

            Sansa turned at the doorway, staring at Mr Baelish. There was an _infinite_ list of things he could tutor her in – and perhaps only a handful of items actually included math.

            Oh, what a wicked game they play.

**Author's Note:**

> [Random note: the numbers in the username actually spell out Petyr in hexadecimal. So, y'know, I feel like it's a bit a of a joke to him that his name is literally there but no one is /smart/ enough to realize it.  
> Anywho! So that's that. A random idea I threw out on tumblr, and tbh I didn't expect so many people to like that post ahaha. I hope it lives up to what y'all were thinking.]


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